Dare to Love (51 page)

He turned and left the cluster of tables. Hurrying past the pushcart full of flowers, he moved on down the street in a brisk stride and merged into the crowd to disappear from sight. I remained at the table, fighting to maintain my composure. It was over. I had sent him away. The others had abandoned me, brutally, and I had rejected the one man who loved me completely, selflessly, the one man who loved me the way every woman dreams of being loved. Still, I had done the right thing, I knew that, but the knowledge was little consolation. I sat quietly, filled with grief as I thought of what might have been.

XXXVII

“It's just as well,” Millie announced blithely as we strolled under the arcades of the Palais Royale. “I was getting a mite tired of it all, to tell you the truth, all those bill collectors, all those harried secretaries underfoot, and he was always writing! Literary life's not for me, definitely not. It was a very amiable parting,” she continued. “Alexandre gave me a kiss on the cheek and a smack on the behind and stuffed an enormous roll of bills down the front of my dress. I'll always adore the man, even if he is an outrageous scamp.”

A week had gone by since Phillipe had left me sitting at the outdoor cafe. Millie and I were out early shopping. She had moved in with me the day before, bringing an inordinate amount of luggage and filling the house with her merriment. I was very thankful. It had been a bad week. I was still trying to forgive myself for what I had done to Phillipe, and his brave, tender smile seemed to haunt me. He was back in Touraine now, and I prayed he would meet a beguiling young girl who would make him forget me.

“I love this place,” Millie announced, gazing around at the masses of ancient gray stone that surrounded the gardens. “Just think, royalty used to cavort here. Now the arcades are lined with shops, gambling halls up above. Want to sample some perfume? I understand this shop is one of the best.”

“Not really. I'm afraid I'm not very good company today.”

“Nonsense. You're just preoccupied. You did the only thing you could do.”

“I know that, but I still can't help blaming myself.”

“You mustn't, Elena. He'll suffer a bit, yes, but I daresay he'll thank you one day for what you did.”

The arcades were cool and shadowy, the tiles uneven beneath our feet, and there were smells of damp stone and sweat and ancient dust. Dozens of shoppers moved about, examining the wares in the windows, and children played noisily amidst the flowers in the untidy gardens. A dog barked, leaping after a stick thrown by a chubby little girl in pink. Millie and I stepped into one of the dim, narrow shops to look at some outlandishly priced hats, and then we paused a moment to look through the window of a pet shop where brilliantly feathered birds perched in bamboo cages. Soon we found ourselves going through the narrow passageway and out the gate, leaving the Palais Royale behind.

Millie and I strolled aimlessly through a labyrinth of shadowy, twisting streets, enjoying the walk, in no hurry to fetch a cab. A streetcleaner swept the cobblestones listlessly. Dingy gray pigeons fluttered about the buildings, cooing serenely. Paris wore an air of mellow beauty and elegance, slightly shopworn and rubbed at the edges. The seductive charm of the city seemed to have paled, but I knew that was because of my own state of mind.

“Have you thought about what you're going to do next?” Millie asked.

I shook my head. “I suppose I'll take another engagement. Not in Paris. I may even go on another tour.”

“That would be smashing! I'd adore it.”

“You mean you'd go with me?”

“Of course! Truth to tell, I've missed the old excitement—all that discomfort, all those frayed nerves and shouting matches and opening nights in drafty theaters without proper lighting. I loved every minute of it.”

Millie began to chatter merrily about the past, recalling some of our adventures—the time Anthony forgot our tickets and we were stranded in a chilly train station all night long, the night we stepped into the dressing room to find a trained seal act occupying it, the hotel in Bath we shared with dozens of haughty, arthritic old women who were outraged by our presence and watched our comings and goings through a sea of lorgnettes. I began to feel much better, smiling as I remembered. Incidents that had been infuriating at the time seemed vastly amusing now.

“And all those
men
,” Millie continued. “I made ever so many friends! At least one in every town. I guess you could say I was shopping around for the right one. Maybe I'll find him yet.”

“And then?” I inquired.

“I'll latch on to him and he'll
never
get away. I'm not going to find him in France, that's for sure. These Frenchmen! They're charming and lusty and ever so gallant, but I want someone big and strong and stable, someone who'd rather get out and work than sit around discussing books and paying compliments.”

We turned the corner and started down a broad avenue lined with elegant shops. The people strolling there wore much more splendid attire, and the carriages bowling up and down the street seemed shinier. Mellow beauty gave way to glittering newness and swank glamor. Exquisite jewelry and fine plate sparkled behind clear, polished glass, gold awnings above the windows, and gleaming white marble steps tempted one to enter plush dress shops and perfumeries. The contrast was startling, but that was Paris.

Millie continued describing her ideal man: “Virile, of course, someone who can be rough if necessary, stern and forbidding, but tender, too, gentle and soft-spoken. He needn't be too highly educated. I want someone more interested in me than in politics and plays and the latest novel, someone honest and unspoiled and—”

Millie cut herself short with alarming abruptness. Wearing an expression of thorough amazement, pink lips parted, blue eyes wide with surprise, she pointed. I turned to peer at the window of a chic, expensive bookstore, and I could feel the color leaving my cheeks. I stared in stunned belief at the pyramids of books and the poster behind them. It featured a vivid painting of me in spangled Spanish costume, and the words in French read: AT LAST! THE TRUE STORY OF ELENA LOPEZ IN HER OWN WORDS! THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY ALL PARIS HAS BEEN WAITING FOR! The books were bound in bright red, with the title,
ELENA LOPEZ: Ma Vie et Mes Amours
, in gold leaf on the spines.

“You didn't tell me you'd written a book,” Millie exclaimed.

“I haven't,” I retorted.

“But—”

“Fetch a cab, Millie,” I said. My voice was like ice. “Wait for me. I'll be right out.”

I swept into the store. A prissy, self-satisfied clerk in a tailored tan suit hurried over to me, ingratiating smile fixed in place. He didn't recognize me at first. I was wearing a modest pale violet frock and no make-up. I pointed to the table laden with copies of the book, so new that they still smelled of printer's ink and glue.

“
Ma Vie et Mes Amours
,” I snapped.

My cheeks were flushed with anger and my eyes must have flashed. The clerk was taken aback, supercilious manner giving way to awe as he recognized me. Flustered, excited, he was momentarily at a loss for words. I tapped my foot impatiently, and he scurried over to fetch a copy for me.

“How much?” I demanded.

“Oh, Miss Lopez, we wouldn't dream of charging you. I wonder—I wonder if you might sign a few copies for us. I'm sure our customers would be thrilled if—”

I stormed out of the store before he could finish the sentence. A cab was waiting at the curb, the door standing open, Millie already inside. I climbed in, closed the door and opened the book. I began to read as the cab moved down the street. I skimmed, turning the pages at a rapid rate, pausing now and then to take a deep breath as I spotted a particularly outrageous passage. When the carriage stopped in front of the house, Millie paid the driver, and we went inside. I sat down in the drawing room to read for another half hour, and then I slammed the book shut and hurled it across the room.

“Is—is it that bad?” Millie asked nervously.

“It's abominable!”

“I wonder who wrote it?”

“There's only one person who
could
have written it! I intend to find him, and when I
do
—”

I marched upstairs, sat down at the dressing table and put my hair up in the old style. I applied stage make-up: dark mascara, blue-gray shadow, rouge, vivid red lip rouge, and then I took down one of my boldest gowns, a vivid crimson brocade. Elena Lopez was going to make a call, and no one was going to doubt my identity. I only wished I had a horse whip to carry with me.

“Elena!” Millie exclaimed as I came downstairs. “Surely you're not going out like that? It's not even noon!”

“I don't know when I'll be back!” I informed her. “I may not even
be
back. Before the day is over I may be behind bars, waiting sentence for cold-blooded murder!”

Millie looked aghast, but there was a twinkle of amusement in her eyes just the same.

“Do take care,” she cautioned gaily.

I hurried out of the house, hailed a passing cab and gave the driver the address of the publishing house that I had carefully noted earlier. I couldn't remember ever having been so angry in my whole life. I was absolutely consumed with rage, and it seemed to grow as the cab made its way across the city, finally reaching a dingy, run-down district of gray brick buildings. The driver stopped in front of a tall, narrow building festooned with ornate plaster work crumbling sadly under the grime. The front door was painted blue. I asked the driver to wait.

The office I wanted was on the third floor. My heels rang loudly as I climbed the stairs. The door to the office was closed, but I didn't bother to knock. Monsieur Hulot was sitting behind his desk, eating his lunch from a brown paper bag. There were bundles of books all over the floor, piles of manuscript all over the battered desk. He looked up in dismay as I entered and scrambled hastily to his feet, knocking over a stack of papers as he did so.

“Miss Lopez!” he exclaimed. “What—what a surprise!”

“Who?” I demanded, holding up the book.

“Uh—I don't know what—Miss Lopez, I—uh—I trust there's been no misunderstanding. He told me he'd written the book with your full approval. He said—”

“I want a name. I want an address. I want them now!”

Hulot supplied them promptly, and twenty minutes later I found myself in an even dingier district on the other side of the Seine. This was the Paris of struggling painters and writers, the true Bohemia, a labyrinth of narrow, twisting streets with tall, crowded buildings and cheap cafes. No trees and flowers relieved the gloom. Windows were unwashed. Very little sunlight found its way there, yet a curious atmosphere of hope prevailed. The young people I saw on the streets seemed unusually carefree, immersed in dreams of a glorious future.

Dismissing the driver, I looked up at the building. It certainly wasn't what he had been accustomed to. I frowned, trying to hold on to my anger, but it was ebbing—much too rapidly. There was no concierge inside, and although the lobby was thankfully dim, I still caught glimpses of the hideous wallpaper and dusty potted plants. I climbed more stairs, six steep flights this time, the last two bare of carpet. I could smell dust and flaking plaster and cheap wine as I reached the top floor and banged on the bare wooden door.

“Just a minute!” he called.

I could hear him moving around inside, and then he threw the door open with jaunty aplomb and smiled. The smile vanished immediately. He had obviously been expecting someone else, someone female judging from the enthusiastic way he had opened the door. Anthony stepped back, at a loss for words for perhaps the first time in his life. I swept past him into the cluttered garret apartment, gazing around with cool disdain. Stacks of newspapers and magazines covered the floor. A table littered with empty wine bottles stood in front of a lumpy sofa that clearly served as a bed.

“You've come down in the world,” I observed.

“Oh, these are just temporary lodgings,” he assured me. “I'll be moving out any day now, as soon as Hulot sends the first check. You—uh—you look smashing, luv. Always did have a sense of style. That dress is certainly
red
, but then red
is
your color.”

He had overcome his surprise and seemed quite at ease now. He wore snug blue and gray checked breeches and a white linen shirt open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up. His rich, wavy brown hair was as unruly as ever, and the merry blue eyes sparkled with mischief. With his slightly twisted nose and wide, engaging grin he was as devilishly handsome as I remembered. I steeled myself against the flood of memories.

“I guess you've read the book?” he said.

“I read it.”

“Terrific, isn't it? I thought I did a super job.”

“There is an awful lot about
you
in it.”

“Best part of the book,” he said brightly. “I wrote it in English, of course. A friend of mine translated it into French chapter by chapter. The English version will come out in London next month, and there's going to be an American edition as well.”

“Don't count on it.”

Anthony arched a brow, tilting his head to one side. “Hey, you're not angry, are you?”

“Angry?
Angry
! The whole book is a pack of lies! It's outrageously sensational. Pure fabrication from first page to last! Those chapters about my affair with Franz! That section about my stay in Barivna! How dare you? How
dare
you!”

“Guess you are a bit miffed after all,” he observed.

“I intend to have every copy recalled from the stores! I intend to sue you for libel! I intend to—to—”

Too angry to continue, I glared at him with blazing eyes. He sighed and shook his head, and then he grinned again. That was the last straw. I raised the book I was still holding and hurled it at him. Ducking nimbly, he flung his arms up to protect his face. I then reached for one of the empty wine bottles and let it fly. Then another … and another … Anthony leaping out of the way of each burst and pleading with me to listen to reason. I continued my barrage, blind with fury, until I finally ran out of bottles. As I searched for something else to throw, he dashed across the room and grabbed me.